


The Path That Leads Astray

by aglarond



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Character of Color, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Identity Issues, M/M, Mommy Issues, Swearing, Tumblr Prompt, Zevran Versus the Diaspora
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aglarond/pseuds/aglarond
Summary: Set post-Awakening. When they reunite in Antiva, Roan Mahariel helps Zevran topple a couple of Crow Houses for funsies, while quietly searching for answers to Zevran’s lifelong questions. After finding a solid lead, the pair depart for the Nocen Coast in search of the Dalish Clan Oranavra, the rumored clan of Zevran’s late mother.Written for ZevWarden Week 2020 prompt "Identity"
Relationships: Zevran Arainai/Male Mahariel, Zevran Arainai/Male Warden
Comments: 16
Kudos: 12
Collections: ZevWarden Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all their work, Zev and Roan find Clan Oranavra. But in many ways, their journey is just beginning.

Zevran skipped through the scrub brush, dodging dips in the path and craggy rocks as he dashed back to the small copse of trees where Mahariel waited out of sight. “ _Tesoro!_ ” he whispered urgently, his voice cutting through the ambient murmur of the forest. “Three Dalish scouts, spotted just ahead. I believe they are the very same we seek!”

Roan Mahariel’s ears perked up. He poked his head just above the log he rested behind, eyeing Zevran’s approach. “Are you sure? How do you know?” he asked, trying to keep his excitement contained just in case this was another false alarm.

Zevran vaulted over the log, his cloak sailing behind him, and settled nimbly into the underbrush next to his beloved.

“ _Calma, querido_ ,” he said, breathing heavily as he brushed rogue strands of long blonde hair from his face. “Their armbands—ashen blue, just as we said before. Very distinctive.” Another heavy breath. “Nothing like the somber colors of Tevene soldiers.” Then, turning to face his partner, he said, “These are the ones we seek.”

But they had been fooled before. “What if they are Tevinter scouts in disguise?” Roan countered. “Or slavers? One can never truly know, so far north…”

But Zevran was adamant. “They are of the Oranavra clan, I am sure of it.” Zevran held his lover’s gaze and something there convinced Roan to relent.

He smiled slightly. “I trust you, vhenan.”

“Mm.” Zevran hummed as he rose to his feet, walking to their tent to retrieve his waterskin. “Then it is settled.” Roan watched him as if in a haze.

“By the gods.” Mahariel breathed deeply; if Zevran was right—and there was no reason to believe he wasn’t—his eyesight and attention to detail were leagues beyond Roan’s own—then this moment was months in the making. If he was right, in just minutes, they could be walking through the Dalish camp belonging to Zevran’s mother’s clan.

Roan was buzzing with silent excitement where he sat, the resolution of their months-long journey nearly at hand. Zevran, for his part, kept unusually quiet, pacing in small circles outside their tent as he drank deeply from the waterskin. This silence worried him. After months on the chase and years— _decades_ —of wondering before that, Zevran should be quivering with excitement for the opportunity to find the missing link to his family, his rumored Dalish heritage. “Zevran,” Roan called out, careful to keep any accusation from his tone. “Are you all right?”

Zevran stirred from his trance. “Who, me? Of course, _querido_ , I am quite well—why do you ask?” he said, resuming a confident air as he fiddled with the rings on his fingers. “How could I not be well when what we have searched so long for is so close at hand, so close we could taste it?” he finished with a dashing smile, though Roan saw something else playing behind Zevran’s gallant tone and broad grin.

Roan rose from his spot in the grass and walked towards his partner. “You know,” he started slowly, hoping the right words would come to him in this crucial moment, “we need not approach them now, if you would prefer to wait.” Zevran’s golden eyes found Roan’s, a question held in his gaze. He gulped, hoping his suspicions were correct as he pressed on. “What I mean is, we’ve already found them, the clan. And if I know anything about the Dalish—northern or not—they’re not likely to move for some time, and if they did it would be in this general area. We could leave… and easily find them again another time.” He paused to smirk, casting his eyes downward. “Or even ask Leliana to keep tabs for us, if you’d like—her reach is quite impressive these days and I’m sure she would oblige us.”

Roan stopped to stand in front of Zevran, grasping his hands to still their fidgeting. “What I’m saying is, we can stop—right now, if you’d like. If you’re...not ready. I know we started this journey to help you find some sense of yourself, of your history. And I want that for you. But I hope you know—I _want_ you to know that…whatever happens in there, you are enough just as you are, Zevran. And I love you desperately.” He reached a hand up to cup Zevran’s cheek, adding, “Dalish prince or song of a two-bit whore—all’s the same to me.”

Zevran’s mouth twitched as a chortle escaped his mouth. “I had no idea you were such a pessimist, my darling.” He laughed again as Roan’s mouth curved into a smile as well, despite his seriousness.

After his laughs subsided, Zevran looked back to Roan, a new gravity to his gaze. “I—” he started, looking down at their intertwined hands. “No. I thank you, _querido,_ but no.” Zevran chewed at his lip, taking a deep breath in before continuing. “We must go. Now. For so many years I have wondered and hoped, _yearned_ for this chance—” he shook his head slightly as he spoke, “—to abandon it now would be agony.” He looked up to Roan, eyebrows lifted in expectation.

“Then we go,” Roan smiled, squeezing his lover’s hands. “Ar lath ma, vhenan. Anything for you.”

* * *

Wending through the trees, Roan and Zevran’s hooded figures approached the trio of scouts from the front in full view, making no attempt to hide their approach. Zevran even stepped on a few branches for good measure, the snap of twigs sending echoes through the thinning woods.

Roan used these final moments to confirm their plan of action. “I will press my kin to ease our passage into the camp, but any discussion of our purpose I leave to you. Agreed?”

Zevran nodded curtly, keeping his eyes trained forward. “Nothing would make me happier, _tesoro_.”

They pressed on through the trees. As they closed the distance between themselves and the trio, a voice rang out.

“Halt, stranger. What brings you to this place?”

Roan and Zevran slowed their approach but did not stop. The scouts raised their bows and one set of daggers in warning and Roan offered his open palms in surrender, Zevran close behind. After a few final paces, Roan spoke. “Andaran atish’an, ma nien.”

The scout in the center of the trio spoke first, her notched arrow never wavering from its target. “I am no friend of yours, stranger. You speak our words but do not answer my question. What brings you to this place?

Cautious, but undeterred, Roan addressed the lead scout again. “We are but travelers to your lands, though we have business with your Keeper. Please grant us passage.”

The three scouts were unmoved. “You are free to pass as you came, traveler,” came the response from the scout who spoke before. “You can have no business here. Be gone from this place.”

Roan felt rather than saw Zevran reach for one of his concealed blades. _Hopefully it will not come to that_ , he thought. _We have come such a long way_. Recommitting to their goal, Roan spoke again. “I understand your caution, friend,” he started reaching for his hood. The two scouts whose grip on their weapons had lapsed, recommitted, brandishing their weapons at the outsiders, threatening violence if either one so much as breathed again without warning.

Roan relented, holding his arm aloft. “Please know we wish you no harm.” Then, ever so slowly, Mahariel reached the same hand to the hood of his cloak, letting it fall to his shoulders in one fluid movement, revealing his ochre vallaslin dedicated to Dirthamen and a shock of red hair. “We come with a question for your Keeper, lethallan.”

The center scout let her bow fall slightly, shock coloring her face. “Aneth ara. I did not realize you were one of The People, traveler,” she said. Then, suspicion creeping into her voice, she asked, “Why did you not reveal yourself sooner?

Taking advantage of the diffused tension from Roan’s reveal, Zevran reached up to throw back his hood as well. “Because, my dear lady,” he started. “We walk a dangerous path in these northern lands. Not all who wander the Nocen Coast are friendly to our kind.”

Her eyes flicked to Zevran, sizing him up before relenting. “True enough.” She shouldered her weapon. “Most shemlen in these parts would not think twice to capture or kill any of the Elvhen they passed in these woods.” She gestured to her fellows to shoulder their weapons as well. Threading a hand through her short hair, she spoke again. “I am called Ghetriel.”

Bowing slightly, Zevran supplied the names the pair traveled with, choosing to reserve their true identities for their conversation with the Keeper.

“Well met,” Ghetriel continued. “You say you have business with our Keeper?”

“We do.”

Ghetriel’s eyes narrowed. “And what is the nature of this business?

Roan stepped in, sensing the scout’s apprehension and not willing to lose the opportunity so close at hand. “I am afraid that is for your Keeper’s ears only, lethallan.”

Ghetriel regarded him for several moments, apparently deciding whether she believed him enough to continue or if simply being of the People allowed him the benefit of the doubt. Whichever it was, she soon yielded. “Hmph. As you say,” she muttered. Motioning to the scout at her right—the one with the daggers—she spoke again. “Feyvel will escort you to camp, traveler. Clan Oranavra welcomes you.”

Mahariel clasped his hands together, bowing slightly. “Ma serranas, asa’ma’lin.”

“Dar’eth shiral, isa’ma’lin. I hope you find what you seek.”

* * *

Wide eyes followed their every step as Roan and Zevran walked through the Dalish camp, trailing at the scout’s heels. Growing up in the Sabrae clan, Roan was familiar with the typical Dalish wariness of outsiders, but this treatment was unusual, verging on bizarre. Dalish children stopped their play to stare and gawk at the newcomers, while some ran for their mothers. Hunters grabbed at their weapons as the pair approached, their piercing eyes trained to their targets. Roan had never experienced anything quite like it.

The spectacle also seemed to irk Zevran; he leaned into Roan, ducking his head into the crook of his neck to prevent others from seeing his mouth move. “Are all your people so friendly, _querido_? The love in this place,” he sniffed the air deeply, shuddering for effect, “it is palpable.”

Roan chuckled wryly. “Our people, ma vhenan,” he whispered back, extending his hand to Zevran.

Smiling, Zevran took it and grasped tightly, his golden eyes shining. 

Ahead, the scout cleared his throat, drawing the pair’s attention. “Just here, lethallen,” he said, gesturing to an ashen blue aravel a short distance ahead in a clearing, framed by wooden crates on either side, a small wooden table with no chair and trimmed with clusters of drying herbs. Roan frowned, unsure what they were meant to see—this couldn’t be the Keeper’s aravel. Its ornamental carvings were too plain. And just then, a flash of movement behind a pile of crates drew his eyes. A woman, young with a long braid of dark hair and deeply bronzed skin, emerged from behind the clutter, a stack of books and parchment piled high in her arms. 

She faltered slightly, setting eyes on the scout first. “Oh, hello, Feyvel,” the woman said, taking a couple steps towards the desk on her left. Unloading her arms on the tabletop, she looked up again, blinking in the afternoon sun. “And who is this?” she asked no one in particular, gesturing towards Roan and Zevran before turning back to her papers. “Not messengers, is it? They don’t look it. And Clan Lavellan has already moved on, I think…” she trailed off as she rifled through her books, apparently losing interest.

Roan and Zevran looked at each other, unsure of how to address the woman. By her robes, he knew her to be a mage, but was sure she was not the Keeper they sought. Feyvel offered no help whatsoever, turning from the group to take his leave. Zevran nudged Roan, raising an eyebrow meaningfully at the woman, urging him to speak. Taking his meaning, Roan started, but the woman cut him off.

“Come on, then, out with it.”

“Andaran atish’an, asa’ma’lin. We are not messengers and no, we bring no tidings of Clan Lavellan. We are travelers come from the south and we seek your counsel on—hmm…we seek information on…ah, well—” Mahariel faltered, catching himself before starting to divulge their purpose to this woman. _Careful, Roan. You promised Zevran you would leave his story for him to share._ Roan looked to Zevran who eyed him carefully; Casting him a soft smile, Roan beckoned for Zevran to pick up where he left off.

The woman clucked her tongue, still waiting and quickly losing patience. With a deep exhale through his nostrils, Zevran turned to face the woman standing at her desk, ignoring them in favor of her literature. Wetting his lips once, Zevran began to speak, introducing themselves again by their aliases. A twinge of anxiety colored his words, adding a slight stutter to every third syllable, though Roan suspected only he noticed.

“We have traveled very far, my lady, and at great peril to locate your clan.” Under his breath he added, “You and your people were…astonishingly difficult to find, in fact…” Zevran shook his head, starting again. “What I mean to say is this: We have traveled far in search of your clan and the considerable knowledge you possess. You might possess…we hope you po—” He paused to collect himself. “Ahem. We humbly request an audience with your Keeper—”

She cut in. “Oh, do you now?”

“I…beg your pardon?”

“I wonder that you’ve ever _humbly_ requested anything.”

Roan’s face dropped, all the silent pride suffusing him from Zevran’s progress and the swell of this hard-fought moment erased, replaced by stinging pangs of annoyance. _What does this woman mean by such an accusation? She cannot know us—will not even_ look _at us—and yet she makes accusations and snide remarks?!_ Roan’s face screwed up in quiet indignation as he searched the woman's face. He saw little recognition or care at the impact of her words, her eyes still cast down at her papers. Another prickle of annoyance stung in his chest. Roan turned to Zevran to gauge his feeling; maybe he was taking this exchange out of context? But no, it appeared the slight had landed there as well; Zevran was handling her rudeness well, though a trained eye—or an observant lover—could note the muscle at the corner of his mouth tensing in agitation.

The woman spoke again, drawing Mahariel’s attention back to the aravel. “But, go on, then. Finish what you have to say…if you must,” she added, turning now to lift a second stack of books to her desk.

Roan snuck another look sideways. He gulped; Zevran’s mouth was taut with rising anger. Zevran was not one to lose his temper easily, Roan knew, but he worried that such tender topics as Zevran’s family heritage could cause even his cool blood to boil if not handled with care. He muttered a prayer to Mythal that he might be wrong.

As he did, Zevran applied again to the woman, keeping his voice even with great effort. “Good woman,” he started, a little louder than before. “We…respectfully request an audience with your Keeper. We seek information on a young woman, once of your clan, but who left…suddenly, many years ago.”

“And what makes you worthy of such information?” she asked, marking at a paper with a quill before setting it aside. “You seek answers and truth, while supplying none yourself. What do you say for yourselves?” She did not wait for a response, leaning forward to rest her weight on the table, arms outstretched before her. “Hmm?” she called, settling her heavy gaze on them for the first time since they arrived. An eerie cold washed over Roan as he caught her gaze; he shrunk under it, suddenly regretting his earlier wish for her full attentions.

She regarded him closely for a moment longer before turning back to Zevran, her light eyes gleaming. Roan watched a knowing smile split her face. “Honesty will earn you better answers, da’ean.”

_How could she know_ , he thought wildly. Hot fear trickled down Roan’s spine as he watched Zevran stare down the witch as she glared back, unwavering. Even with his heart fit to burst in dread of what would come next, Roan didn’t dare to interrupt whatever test of wills the two engaged in. He watched on, scarcely breathing and desperate for one of them to break their standoff.

Zevran broke away first, dipping his head as he closed his eyes. “So it is.” Zevran adjusted his stance, shaking off some of the lingering tension in his shoulders and neck before turning to face the woman again. “My name is Zevran. I am an assassin and former Antivan Crow of House Arainai.” He gestured to Roan. “This is my partner, Roan Mahariel, Grey Warden and former Warden Commander of Ferelden, and member of clan Sabrae to the south.” Then, regaining some of his traditional swagger, he dipped low into a bow. “How do you do?”

A triumphant smile spread across the woman’s face as she leaned back from the table, nodding coolly at each of them. “Well met, Zevran. Roan.” She brought a hand to her chest when she spoke again. “My name is Fiothra, First of clan Oranavra to the north. Aneth ara, shia’elanaan.”

“Aneth ara,” the men mimicked.

Fiothra searched the pair for another moment, a small smile still playing at her mouth. Casting her eyes down, she moved from behind the desk, drawing her arms across her chest as she closed some of the distance between them. “So. You wish to speak with the Keeper, yes? And what, exactly do you wish of him that I could not provide?”

Where Roan would have hesitated, Zevran pushed forward. “I will leave that up to you to decide, my lady,” he answered. “We are at your mercy, in this respect. But perhaps some context will help you decide?”

Fiothra nodded curtly for him to continue, the corners of her mouth still twisting upward.

Zevran opened his mouth to speak again, the utter truth spilling out of it. “We seek information on my mother, an elven woman, rumored to be of Dalish heritage, though her short life and humble end make verification of such particulars…ah, difficult.” He paused to take a shuddering breath, but continued in a firm voice. “As we have mentioned, through our attempts to follow what little trail she had left in her short life have led us here, to you, and to clan Oranavra, you see. I believe strongly she was of your people, and left some thirty-odd years ago for Antiva City, young and in love.” He paused, pressing his mouth into a thin line. “Mournful her. Such would likely be the last your people heard of her before her passing.”

Fiothra chewed on his words, eyeing him closely. “And what can you tell me of her, da’ean? You say she was of our clan thirty years ago, but I wonder if that simple fact would recall her memory without even a name.”

“I have a name.”

Roan was aghast. “You do?!”

“I do.”

Fiothra’s eyes flicked between the pair silently. “Then, please, da’ean—share it.”

Zevran took a deep breath, letting his exhale out slowly as the others stared at him, riveted. Finally, he spoke again. “Her name was Lahari.”

Something changed in the witch’s face at the mention of that name, but Roan was not quick enough to catch it before it was gone. “Lahari, you say?”

“Indeed.”

Breaking their gaze, she looked down, nodding brusquely. “Mm. Well, then, it is as you say, da’ean.” She closed the remaining distance between them, hands falling to her sides. Brushing stray wisps of dark hair from her face, she continued. “You must speak with our Keeper to learn of such matters. My own offerings, I fear, would be…incomplete.”

Roan’s eyes narrowed as he tried to discern her meaning as he scarcely dared to hope, heart hammering in his chest.

“You will need to remove your weapons. Do not worry: they will stay here with me. No harm will come to them.” A blithe smile flashed across her face as she reached out a hand to receive the weapons she expected Roan and Zevran to offer. “Your packs can stay as well.”

Roan moved to protest—they could not be expected to disarm entirely, surely? For all that the Dalish were his— _their_ —people, they were still largely strangers. And this clan especially was…less than friendly to them so far.

He looked to Zevran, expecting to hear his thoughts echoed, and was shocked to see Zevran already removing an arsenal of daggers from his person. Both stilettos from his back were already resting in Fiothra’s outstretched hands as he reached to remove the daggers at the small of his back, waist and thigh.

Roan’s mouth gaped as he watched Zevran place the daggers in Fiothra’s hands and then bend to retrieve the daggers at his calf. Moved by Zevran’s apparent trust in the woman, Roan slid his pack off of one shoulder, then the next, still scarcely believing Zevran’s readiness. The pack landed in the dirt with a dull thump. He moved to remove his weapons as well, unclasping the belt at his middle securing his dirks to his waist. Fiothra’s hands filled quickly as the pair unloaded their arms. Muttering under her breath, the witch called forth a wooden barrel, motioning for Zevran and Roan to place the remainder of their weapons inside.

When they had fully disarmed—Zevran even unloaded the small throwing knives kept at his wrists and hidden pockets in his cuirass—Fiothra hummed appreciatively and wordlessly motioned for the pair to follow her before trudging back past the aravel and deeper into the Dalish camp.

Mahariel turned to Zevran, keen to ask him what had come over him and why he was following this woman so blithely—it was quite unlike him. But as his eyes turned to his side, he found empty space; Zevran had already begun to follow the witch with little thought to whether Roan was coming behind.

Warning flared in his belly. This was _not_ going to plan.

An exasperated noise left Roan’s throat in place of the words he could not form. Zevran looked back, Roan’s galled expression giving him pause. He shot a glance at Fiothra, continuing her march without either stranger in tow, quite unfazed in their absence. Looking back at Roan, the ex-assassin shrugged weakly. “ _De perdidos al río, tesoro. Venga_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations that require a bit more context are below. For literal Elvhen translations, I recommend LingoJam. 
> 
> "Ar lath ma, vhenan." = I love you, heart/my heart  
> "Andaran atish’an, ma nien.” = Formal Elvhen greeting + my not-close friend  
> "Lethallan/en/in" = Familiar person/clansman or -mate or similar  
> "Asa'ma'lin" = sister  
> "Isa'ma'lin" = brother  
> "Da'ean" = little bird (Little crow would have been more accurate, but I thought da'dahabana sounded silly, so...)  
> "Shia'elanaan" = travellers  
> "De perdidos al río" = In for a penny, in for a pound


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran and Roan meet with the Oranavra clan Keeper to learn what really happened to Zevran's mother. And while pain runs deep, the truth always comes out.

Stripes of afternoon sun slipped through the leafy canopy above, coating the forest floor as Roan and Zevran navigated the reedy wood back to their campsite, both well in body but broken in spirit.

_I – It could’ve gone worse, I expect,_ Mahariel equivocated, privately lamenting the months of time, effort and foolish hope against hope they had wasted on such an unsatisfying resolution. If a negative could be considered a resolution at all. _Though I can’t quite imagine how. Be glad to see the back of this place, all the same… Creators!_ he exclaimed to himself, teeth worrying at his lip as he relived the last hours of their day. _Where did we go so wrong?_

* * *

Keeper Athlassan had stood in front of them, tall and statuesque in his finely crafted high keeper’s robes, immaculate plaits in his long, dark and greying hair; He was at once all that Roan expected and, yet, still so much less. “So,” the Keeper sighed, his graceful form stooped with disinterest as he picked at an overlong fingernail. “You have come to request an audience. And now you have it—” his eyebrows raised to accent his words, “—what, pray tell, shall you do with it?”

Zevran spoke first, imbued with whatever humble purpose Fiothra had called forth in him earlier. “Good Keeper, we thank you sincerely for seeing us. You are very generous.” He gave a small bow. “By nature, as much as circumstance, your clan was… difficult to locate. You will, of course, forgive us for the lack of notice.” Zevran paused, waiting for some form of assent from the Keeper. But after several moments of no such acknowledgement, Athlassan still minding his fingernails, Zevran upped the ante.

“Ahem. Good Keeper. We come to you today to ask after a young woman who was once of your clan, many years ago.” Zevran twirled his hands in the air in front of him, searching for the right words. “A… defector, by all accounts—”

With that, Athlassan had looked up, lips pursed and shrewd eyes regarding the travelers fully for the first time since they arrived. “None who are born to the clan ever truly part from us, stranger.”

Roan remembered shrinking under that glare, wary of what might follow. They knew little of his man, other than his tetchy disposition and the fact that he had magic, as all Keepers did; a combination that deserved their caution. Gripped by a new fear, Roan raked his eyes over the Keeper’s aravel and surrounds for his stave.

But the Keeper’s face soon relaxed again into its neutral, churlish expression. “But, a peculiar request, all the same. This woman you speak of… she was known to you?” Athlassan clasped his hands behind his back as he drew himself up to his full height, a question held in the arch of his eyebrows. “And how could that be, I wonder…” He cast a disapproving glance at Zevran, over to Roan and then back to Zevran again. “ _You_ , at least, are not Dalish. What occasion would you have to know of this woman? What interest can you have in our people? What is she to you?”

He’d grimaced at the flurry of questions, accusations huddled in Athlassan’s defensive tone. The first pinpricks of doubt began to enter Roan’s mind and he closed his eyes, whispering assurances to steady his fast-beating pulse. Looking back now, he might have taken the hint.

Zevran’s voice drew Roan back to the conversation, a hint of vulnerability in his usual warm tone. “In memory she is nothing at all to us. To me. And yet in hope, in dreams…” he paused, lips drawn into a thin frown as he cast his eyes downward, searching for the right words to express. Finding them, he looked up again at Athlassan.

“She is everything.”

Zevran quieted again, jaw set as his words hung heavy in the air between the three of them. With a terse shake of his head, he finished: “As it is, we look to you to fill the pieces in between. Or so we hope.”

Genuine interest flashed behind the Keeper’s eyes at Zevran’s words. “A heavy hope, indeed. I warn you, stranger: whatever your inquiry, I do not promise satisfaction.”

“Satisfaction is secondary to the truth,” came Zevran’s guileless reply. “We can ask nothing more.”

* * *

“Bastard!” Roan cursed under his breath again, inadvertently breaking the silence between himself and Zevran as they stalked the path back from the Dalish camp. He dodged Zevran’s questioning look cast over his shoulder, mumbling something back about a rock in the path, not to worry, clumsy me. He played it off, or so he hoped, setting his jaw and staring intently at the path ahead until Zevran relented without another word.

_No reason in bothering him just yet_ , he thought _. Let’s just… get to camp, put the kettle on for dinner, and then maybe—_ maybe _—we’ll both be in better spirits. Argh, by the Dread Wolf! I doubt it, but we can’t leave this as it is. We have to talk about… well, all of it. Just as soon as we’ve all had a moment._

Dizzy with a mind too full of swirling thoughts, Roan struggled to keep himself focused and the memories at bay. At least until the two of them were safely ensconced in their campsite again. He pushed his thoughts towards dinner and the dried beans and meat tucked away in his pack that would soon be simmering in a pot over their campfire. It almost worked. Roan kept the trance of recollection away, though snippets of earlier conversation still flitted through his mind.

_“We have lost many of our brethren over the years.”_ The Keeper’s earlier words echoed in Roan’s ears. _“Whether they be slavers or simple shem given to their baser natures, our Tevinter neighbors pose us constant threat, regardless of where we settle.”_ A pregnant pause had drawn both him and Zevran in. “ _But what you speak of, stranger, is uncommon; we have received many more People from beyond our borders than we have lost to the temptations of city life.”_

Roan recalled the icy doubt oozing down his sternum as a flurry of thoughts overtook him. Had they made a terrible mistake? His mind had fired through the catalogue of barmaids, madams and urchins they interviewed for information on Zevran’s mother… Lahari, was it? They couldn’t have gotten the wrong clan, could they? Not that other Dalish frequented these lands—too dangerous by half. Unless they’d missed something. Were they wrong to come here? Had they made a terrible mistake? But before he could spiral out thinking of all the time and effort wasted on their ill-conceived journey, he’d caught the Keeper’s eye and the knowing smirk spreading across his withered face.

_“But… I think I will play your game.”_

A deep loathing bloomed in Roan as he trudged along the wooded path, feet kicking at loose brush in his distraction. _He was toying with us the entire time. The bastard knew from the beginning he wouldn’t help us._ Roan’s boot connected with a particularly large rock and he sent it sailing into the brushwood ahead. _And he just… what? Sat there, listening to Zev bare his heart for- for what? Fun?_ Roan let lose another string of curses under his breath. _Sadistic bastard. I- I can’t explain it any other way._ He hung his head, avoiding Zevran’s eye as he cast another questioning look over his shoulder, because, well… what would he even say?

_Elgar’nan. Can’t wait to be rid of this place._

Roan’s dislike of the Keeper mounted as the minutes passed, though it hardly mattered now; they would never see him again, never have any occasion to visit clan Oranavra, by the gods. So, in effect, it was best to forget. Forget today, forget the journey beforehand. Forget and accept that all they knew now of Zevran’s family is all they would ever know. Though, for all Athlassan’s uselessness on that front, the day hadn’t been entirely fruitless. Regrettably, that unexpected crop had spilled from Zevran’s lips rather than the Keeper’s.

Roan groaned softly; those memories were even more raw than those of the Keeper’s idle malice. He had listened, half-hearing as Zevran recounted the same snippets shared earlier in the day at Athlassan’s prompting—their true names and vocations, the purpose of their visit and the winding journey to this point—but also many new details he had never known, drawing his ear. He had struggled to keep the gnawing hurt at bay as secrets about Zevran’s mother spilled from his mouth. Secrets about the woman herself, her appearance and some early history, and even the names of grandparents that Roan had never stopped to consider whether Zevran possessed.

Mahariel felt himself coming unmoored again and clung desperately to the current moment, digging his fingernails into his palms to draw his mind back. _Steady, Roan. Steady. There’ll be time enough for all of that once we’re back at camp._ Still, the knowledge that Zevran had kept these secrets from him… that much of the last six months of their lives together searching for answers had been built upon a lie—or an omission of truth, if you prefer—sat strangely on his shoulders.

It wouldn’t do to wallow. There was plenty of time for that once they were back at camp. Or better yet, hundreds of miles away from this festering sore on the Nocen Coast, and safely nestled, anonymous and unremarkable, back in the bosom of Antiva City. Roan sighed heavily, steeling himself. Sorrow just now would be his undoing. But, anger… anger he could carry, even allow himself to really feel as he slipped back into a cache of recent memories. And so, he did just that.

* * *

“From there, she took on work at one of the brothels in Antiva City. To keep the two of them in clothes, or so I assume. At La Golondrina Blanca, to be specific.”

The Keeper had visibly recoiled. “And you are the product of such a union?” he asked, disapproval clear in his tone. He drew closer to the pair of them, a deep furrow to his brow and a snarl on his lip. “I wonder that you are one of the Elvhen at all—so many of... _those_ result in little more than a brood of elf-blooded which bear no discernable link to The People.” Athlassan paused in front of Zevran, cold eyes peering down his sharp nose as he sneered, his full disgust on clear display. “Certainly not one of merit.”

Roan had bristled at the insult, remembering as his hand ghosted over the place on his belt where his dirks should rest that Fiothra, the clan’s First, had insisted upon taking their weapons before they met with the Keeper. He cursed her foresight, itching for the chance to run Athlassan through and be done with this place, with all its secrets and closed doors. But their journey was not yet complete. Even still, with his nerves worn raw and the cut of Zevran’s admissions still fresh, a greater part of him wished Oranavra’s First had simply turned them away when they asked for an audience.

“I was begotten before she turned to that line of work. Though the particulars matter little, in this case, even if you cared to hear them… which, I will presume you do not.”

Roan caught the dullness in Zevran’s tone, a far cry from his usual warmth. Athlassan’s rudeness was starting to take a toll.

“My mother fell pregnant by a traveling elven craftsman, or so the story goes. One who happened by your clan so many years ago. It was he, and presumably their mutual affection, that convinced her to abandon the clan and make a new home in Antiva City.”

Athlassan snorted derisively at Zevran’s retelling. “A pitiable decision, by all accounts. And given its consequences… _tsk_ , well.” A quiver of mock concern tinged the Keeper’s voice, raising a scorching heat in Roan’s chest and shoulders. His jaw set and he drew in a sharp breath. Even with Zevran’s transgressions fresh on his mind he was still fiercely protective of his lover’s emotions, especially now in the most vulnerable and open state that Roan had ever witnessed.

“And still. A common enough story among you city folk.”

Zevran’s reply was clipped, betraying deeper feelings just beneath the surface. “Such as it is.”

Several tense moments passed between them as the Keeper stared while Zevran held his gaze. Athlassan hummed once, eyes crinkling as his face bent into a cold smile.

“Well. If that is all…?” He dipped his head, looking up through dark lashes to confirm their story was told before continuing. “You seem to know much, Dahabana. You have all but conjured this woman from the memories of others.” Steepling his fingers, the Keeper paused for a beat as he drew in a deep breath. “In truth, I wonder what more I can offer you.”

Roan blinked, not understanding the Keeper’s meaning as his weary brain struggled to keep up. Surely their purpose was made plain? Zevran’s recount was not unclear. Admittedly, the details were sometimes fuzzy, but the broad strokes were crisp and clean. By all the accounts Zevran had unearthed, this woman Lahari broke from her clan three decades prior in the company of a comely stranger who whisked her off to the city where they found equal parts bliss and devastation until her untimely death. And where Roan had doubts before, and as much as he hated to admit it, Zevran’s secreted information had washed those doubts away. And so all that remained was Athlassan’s acknowledgement of their truth. For what else could he offer nearly an hour into their entreaty?

Cautiously confident that the resolution they sought was close at hand, Mahariel turned to offer a reassuring smile to his love. But what he saw gave him pause. Zevran appeared to be running through the same internal calculus Roan had moments before, though his stony expression hinted at a different solution. Roan’s eyes darted over to the Keeper.

Was it his imagination, or did Roan catch a whisper of a smirk at Athlassan’s mouth? He raked his eyes over the Dalish Keeper’s face but found no lingering hint of emotion. Maybe it was his imagination, but the shame and hate roiling in Roan's stomach told him otherwise as Zevran made his final appeal.

“The accounts of her life in Antiva City are many, to be sure. Whether they are all true remains to be seen. And yet… this final chapter means little without the full fabric of her short life to compare it to.” He opened his hands in supplication. “Rumors of her Dalish heritage, for example, are still just that. Rumors.”

Hot breath caught in Roan’s throat as he listened. _Please don’t let it end like this._ They sought validation from this man. They sought connection and family and answers to Zevran’s lifelong questions. Patches to his frayed identity cut by murderers and abusers to distract from whatever came before. They sought justification for the months of time—years in Zevran’s case—invested in this search. All of which landed them here, staring into the Clan Oranavra Keeper’s unfeeling eyes.

Roan’s face fell as he finally allowed himself to know what he had suspected all along, a familiar inky feeling leaking down his spine. There was no truth to be had from such a proud man. Whether it was because they were foreigners or because Zevran was not Dalish—outwardly or by blood, Roan couldn’t be sure and now might never be—but Keeper Athlassan had never intended on providing them any modicum of satisfaction when they arrived here today. Whether the Keeper knew of Zevran’s mother or not, that knowledge was lost to them before they had ever set foot inside the camp.

“But, of course, that is why we are here.”

* * *

Roan squeezed his eyes shut against the memories of their conversation, his blood boiling as he recalled the Keeper’s casual dismissal. When pressed, Athlassan had claimed he knew of no such woman as they described, had never known a Lahari in his time as Keeper or before. And without ceremony, he bid them farewell.

Or he tried.

Roan had screamed then, all threadbare emotions and simmering anger spilling over. He called the Keeper a liar, gatekeeper, Sylaise’s sorrow and more, struggling against Zevran’s restraining hand on his elbow. His words had little effect until he invoked their mother tongue: Enfenim banal’ras ma lasa sethvhenan, Amelan. _That had worked_ , he thought with a smirk, remembering how magic filled the air around him, lifting the hair on his arms.

Zevran dragged him away bodily, steering them back to the First’s aravel to collect their belongings. Roan had struggled weakly until a pained look from his love stilled him. They made quick work of gathering their things, batting away Fiothra’s fretful questions in their haste. And then they were off.

And now here they were.

Roan still seethed with barely checked anger at the Keeper, but even so, the sadness he hoped to keep at bay slowly crept back in. Yet not for himself; there would be ample time to lament Zevran’s deception and a lifetime for them to discuss, cry and heal from that breach of trust. No, the twist in his heart was for Zevran and Zevran alone. His transgression aside—and even perhaps because of it, for Roan trusted that he had good reason for his actions—Roan couldn’t imagine anyone less deserving of the Keeper’s weaponized indifference. Mahariel knew the emptiness of not knowing; he’d only recently wrested the truth of his parents’ demise from Ashalle. And for all the pain of his parents’ absence, a lifetime of unanswered questions was far worse.

A sharp exhale drew his attention back to the present.

Roan looked up to find Zevran stopped in the road up ahead, eyes cast down and fists on his hips. There wasn’t any danger—Zevran’s lax stance told him as much. Instead, he seemed deep in thought and a trill of hope ran up Roan’s spine as his mouth went slack. _I rather expected we’d wait at least until camp to discuss the day’s events_ , he thought, eyes wide as he hungrily watched for any change in Zevran’s demeanor. But if Zevran was ready now to shed the Crow veneer he’d worn since they left the Dalish campsite, then Roan was ready to oblige.

He waited patiently for Zevran to speak first. When he did, it was not at all what Roan expected.

“ _Mi_ _amor_ , do you still have those strips of dried venison in your pack?”

“What?” Roan squeaked. That was not at all what he was expecting. “Erm, I–I think so, yes.”

“Excellent. Could you spare a few?”

Roan’s jaw hung slack has he stared at Zevran’s expectant face. Snapping back to the moment, he fished around in his pack. “Oh, uhm, yes of course,” he muttered, hand closing on the knotted bit of cloth that held the dried meat. He tossed it over to Zevran who caught it easily.

“Ah! My savior. Another step and I would faint.” Zevran made quick work of the knot and popped a strip of dried meat into his mouth, sighing. “And do not worry, I will leave enough to grace our evening meal. I know how you favor your game stews.”

Roan said nothing, caught off guard by Zevran’s glibness. It wasn’t like him to sheath himself in humor anymore—or at least not with Roan. Mahariel wrestled with whether to push Zevran to share more or pull back and allow him to decide his own pace. He favored neither and in seconds his mind was made up. This place was a curse on them both. They couldn’t stay in these woods a second longer under the shadow of the Keeper and their mounting disappointment.

He watched Zevran nibble at another strip of meat and tried to plan his next words carefully. Trading his usual endearments for the King’s Tongue—he couldn’t risk the association of all things Elvhen with today’s disaster—Roan attempted to bend Zevran’s ear.

“M-my love. Perhaps we should pull up camp for the night. Find another rest.” Roan was suddenly very aware of his tongue and the space it occupied in his mouth. “What I mean to say is… there’s no point in sticking around.” _Not a one, according to the Keeper_. He gulped heavily. “With our task complete, th-there’s nothing for us here now.”

Zevran’s snort caught him by surprise. “Trust me, nothing would bring me more joy than to shorten our stay—you know my feelings on forests, of course. But to what end, _querido_? We cannot reach Antiva City in a single night’s journey. We are surrounded, as it were. And besides.” He gestured to the swaths of orange sky peeking through the tree canopy. “It is too late in the day to find alternative shelter, rebuild our campsite elsewhere. Find another clean source of water… the list goes on.” He shook his head, knotting the clutch of dried venison and stowing it. “Even so, you would not wish us to travel by night so close to Tevinter, I think, yes?”

_I wish us to be free of this place and its cancer, whatever the cost_.

“Well, no. But that’s not quite what I meant.”

“No, I suppose it is not. But for all our Keeper’s malcontent, I doubt he intends to set upon us in the night, if that is your fear. He is more bark than bite, that one.”

Roan shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t ready to make jokes just yet.

“Right, well… let’s just forget it then. Glad to be clear of him, all the same.” He eyed Zevran closely, searching for some indication of the pain he knew lurked under that calm façade, but years of practice kept Roan walled out. Fine, then. If that was how it had to be, then fine. For now. Maybe talking, just like distance, wasn’t the remedy Zevran needed just yet. Perhaps… the answer was nothing. Nothing save time. Roan hung his head. He only hoped that once Zevran knew what would help him heal best from this ordeal, he let Roan in on the secret.

Perhaps sensing his partner's resignation, Zevran drew closer, one hand lifting Roan's chin so their eyes met.

“My dear Warden.” Zevran’s soft smile barely touched his sad eyes. “I appreciate your concern for me. Please know that nothing brings me greater solace in this moment.” He lifted both arms to squeeze reassuringly at Roan’s biceps, easing the tension he found there with skilled fingers. “But just now, I can think of no greater balm than a hot meal and a warm bedroll with you at my side.” He quirked a finely arched eyebrow. “Will you oblige me?”

“Always.”

“Aha! Wonderful.” He smiled easily and the pair resumed their trek side by side. A few quiet moments passed before the outline of their camp came into view and Zevran spoke again, his voice softer and smaller than earlier. “Thank you for offering, _mi amor_. To whisk me away. Perhaps when we return to Antiva City… ah, who knows? A vacation may serve to diminish today’s sting in our memories.” He raised his head to look Roan in the eyes. “But… all in good time, yes?”

Roan met Zevran’s stare with a wide-eyed gaze of his own, amazed that his legs still managed to carry him through the brush as his heart weighed heavier with every step. “I understand, my love.” It wasn’t true; he didn’t understand at all and Roan knew it just as well as Zevran did. But for now, the lie served them both as the pair slid back into the heavy silence of a few minutes before, closing the remaining distance to camp in a trance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Enfenim banal'ras ma lasa setvhenan, Amelan" = Fear of shadows gave you a weak heart, Keeper
> 
> Do you ever just post something bc you can't bear to edit it anymore? Yeah, this is that. Sorry if it's unintelligible but this is rewrite #3 and we had to get off that train somewhere. Originally the story was gonna end here, but whoops--a three week delay and now there's two more chapters on the way, an entirely revised plot and triple the planned word count. Brevity is the soul of wit and yet here I am, a joke.
> 
> Again, thanks for reading and you can find me @aglarondwrites on tumblr if you like. Kudos and comment if you enjoy, we all love validation. Thanks!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran and Roan internalize the days events before remembering the strength they can draw from each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask and ye shall receive (AKA comments are my lifeblood--thanks to well-this-is-hawkeward for the kind comment and push to keep writing!)

The mood was somber as night fell over their small campsite. Zevran was much quieter than usual, preparing their evening meal over the campfire without so much as a single verse to share in song as he stirred. Not that Roan had much to offer in response, had Zevran been interested in talking. Their underwhelming exchange with Clan Oranavra’s Keeper had soured both their moods for the remainder of the day, something no lover’s truce on the walk back from camp could balm. Only time would do. And with nothing left to share that would not inflame the emotions still raw from the afternoon’s exchange, both travelers resolved to say nothing at all.

Weary in both mind and body, Roan collapsed at the entrance to their tent with a huff. He resisted the urge to steal a glance at Zevran tending supper by the campfire; Roan knew full well that the silence was necessary—Creators, Zevran had told him himself not two hours ago that he needed time yet to process the… the what? The loss of the day?

_Well, what else would you call it?_

The same anger which threatened to overtake him before roiled again in his belly. It was an old friend at this point, rising inside of him every time he remembered the Keeper’s words.

_By the Dread Wolf! How did we even get here? We were so… careful! Everything we read, everything we heard pointed us here. To this coast. To this clan. We’re not wrong. We… we can’t be._

While his assuredness didn’t change their reality, it did awaken an ember of doubt that would warm him for weeks to come.

Disjointed as his thoughts were, the one thing he could focus on was simply out of the question. As much as it would please him to march back into clan Oranavra’s campsite—damn the hunters and their steely glares, damn the clanspeople and their wide-eyed fear, _damn_ the witch and her tricks—and confront Athlassan again, he knew it would solve nothing.

 _It might do worse than nothing, in Zevran’s case_ , he thought with a dash of shame. Whatever his feelings on the matter, he had to accept the truths before him and make an effort to move on. The Keeper had no information to share with them of Zevran’s mother; or rather, if he did, he simply would not.

Roan attempted to shift his mind to happier thoughts before he fell into another spiral.

For all that he wanted a peaceful and joyous resolution for Zevran and his would-be clan, Roan would have settled for the opportunity to throttle the Keeper at this point, and chanced the arrows in his back and magical crush of his bones to get it. But that too would only cause Zevran more grief, he suspected. And his love was teetering close to an unspoken edge as it was.

Roan squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to remember not to push the issue with Zevran—to let the man know some peace, with Mythal’s favor, after the trying day they’d had. He incanted his reminder a moment more before opening his eyes to the rapidly falling night. It was strange. In another time, in another life, perhaps—who knows if the stain of their disappointment would ever fade from this forest—this sleepy thicket with its craggy rocks at altitude and the pristine lakes at their base might have been an ideal getaway for the two lovers. If they could avoid any roving Tevinter scouts, which, of course they could. The Nocen Coast had many delights, or so Roan had always heard. What a bitter first and final taste of such a beautiful land.

But that line of thinking was no more productive than the litany of questions Roan desperately wanted to pepper Zevran with. He shook both from his mind and turned to unbuckle the last of his armor. The mindless familiarity of the process dulled his senses for a time as his muscles moved and his brain sat in precious rest. Vambraces came off first, joining his supple leather gloves already nestled in the interior of his cuirass. Next came his greaves and, with more difficulty, his pauldrons as the buckles crept just out of his reach. Down to just his padding and leggings, Roan turned his attention to his boots and the pinpricks of doubt nibbling their way back into his conscious mind.

There was still the issue of Zevran’s… could he call it a lie? Omission, yes, but, a lie? Perhaps if it was malicious—which it wasn’t, couldn’t be—he could call it that, but… Creators, how was he to know until they spoke of it?

Roan yanked off his last boot and placed it to the side, breathing deeply to steady his quickening heart rate. His eyes flicked to Zevran; he was mere feet away, still stirring at their supper. But Roan knew that stare fixed in his golden eyes. Zevran was miles away, lost in thought and likely…

_Elgar’nan, is that a tear?_

Another brick in Roan’s wall of resolve chipped away as he plucked up the courage to break their uneasy silence. _Mythal, guide me. Where do I even begin?_

“Zevran, my love? H-how’re… hm.” Mahariel paused, not ready to steal back the silence his love requested of him, however desperate he was to gauge his state of mind. To lend a listening ear and provide the so obviously needed comfort. Let him cry on his shoulder, if he wished. Anything at all. But no, now wasn’t the time. Roan bit his bottom lip, determined to give Zevran the space he needed to work through the day’s emotions. Picking up his earlier thought, he finished with, “How’s supper coming along?”

Zevran kept his gaze trained into the swirling soup before him and Roan felt a pang of guilt for letting his opportunity to speak slide past. “All is well, _amado_. Supper will be ready shortly.” Perhaps hearing his own unconvincing tone, Zevran raised his eyes from the stew and shot Roan a soft, if hollow smile.

Roan returned the thin smile with one of his own, holding it until Zevran turned back to mind the pot. Sighing heavily with all that was left unsaid, Roan turned to empty his pack and prepare it for the long journey home, suddenly grateful that Zevran had refused his offer to break down camp as a fresh surge of weariness washed over him.

* * *

The pair ate their supper in silence, the only sound passing between them coming from the dull scrape of wooden spoons in their bowls. Roan considered forgoing the evening meal and heading to bed directly to end this nightmarish day, but a matronly voice in his head—Wynne’s, most likely—told him he needed every bit of strength to start the journey home tomorrow. So there he sat, pushing stew around in his bowl as Zevran did the same across the campfire, neither of them speaking.

As always, the silence afforded him no respite from the day’s memories clanging away in his mind. And try as he might, the bite of Athlassan’s words still gnawed at his heart, worse still for the silent havoc he knew they reaped on Zevran beneath his stony façade. That was perhaps the worst part—of all the said and unsaid of the day, this final act of withholding stung sharpest.

With his mind still whirring from the day, Zevran’s question caught him by surprise.

“What was that?”

“The stew, _mi amor_. I asked you how you liked the stew?”

Roan’s jaw hung slack for just a beat too long. _The stew. He wants to know about… the stew._

“Oh. Right. Uhm, it’s… good. Hearty.”

Zevran lifted his spoon questioningly and watched broth trickle back into the bowl. “Hmm. Truly? I find it rather thin. The predictable conclusion to my earlier snacking, I suppose,” he replied with a smirk.

Roan returned a shallow imitation of Zevran’s smile—the best he could muster—as his heart seized with sadness. “S’pose so.”

The silence fell again as easily as it disappeared. Roan set about finishing his evening ration with new zeal. If there was nothing more to be said, then sleep could not come fast enough.

Now shoveling spoonfuls of soup into his mouth—Zevran was right, once you got a little ways into it, the broth was thin—Roan glanced up to find him staring, his own dinner abandoned in his lap.

“My love, I know we called a… truce of sorts before coming to camp, and yet, I find there is more to discuss.”

Roan paused, his spoon poised in front of his open mouth. “Now? Ack, uh—Creators, can it wait?”

“No, I do not think it can.”

“Zevran… _vhen—_ I am…” Gods, what could he say that would even come close to describing what he was feeling? World-weary and emotions spent, he couldn’t muster much more than, “I am very tired.”

“I understand, of course,” Zevran replied softly. “But please, _amado_. A moment more. For me.”

As if he could ever truly deny him.

Sensing his agreement, Zevran continued falteringly. “ _Amor_. Roan. I—I must apologize for what was said earlier. More so what was not said to you. About my mother.”

Roan’s hand quivered around his spoon as he set it back in the bowl. _Creators. I guess we’re going to do this now?_ As much as he craved answers for why Zevran kept his knowledge of his mother hidden, his nerves couldn’t take much more of this day.

“No, Zev, I under—well, no I don’t understand, really. I can’t, I don’t think. And that’s… okay, I guess. I just—” Elgar’nan. Where was he going with this? He needed more, certainly. He had so many questions, but…

“No, no, I cannot have you think I do not trust you. It was never that. I simply…” Zevran trailed off once again, the tip of his tongue tracing the corner of his mouth as he sat deep in thought.

Never one to waste a weighty silence, Roan’s mind simmered with wild assumptions, each more damning than the last. He opened his mouth to protest again, as much to soothe his own anxiety as it was to offer his love a way to adjourn the conversation for another day, but Zevran had already begun to speak.

“I…I lived a pleasant enough life in my childhood,” he began slowly. Purposefully. “My early days in the whore house were happier than many orphans in my situation. But even so, in that place—and again later with the Crows—I was one of many and… ultimately unremarkable.”

Zevran hummed a single note to himself and set his supper bowl to the side, carefully nestling it in a flat patch of grass. Roan watched every flex of Zevran’s muscles with wide eyes as he sat still as stone, waiting for his love to continue his tale.

“As I was saying…” Zevran started with a great sigh. “Mm. Yes, I was one of many. A great many; Children are an almost certainty in the brothels. But even so, I was always able to claim my mother’s Dalish heritage and that helped set me apart from the rest. In my own mind at least. I have shared as much.”

Roan offered a short nod of encouragement that Zevran missed, already engrossed in his own retelling.

“And it was much the same in the Crows, at least at first. As a recruit, you are next to nothing until, of course, you prove yourself. It was that drive, you see, that… hunger to be someone, to be set apart, that first made the Crows my home. With experience I drew greater favor and received… a love of sorts. I clung to that, using it to cobble together my little family of Rinnala, Taliesen and myself. And then suddenly, I was no longer alone.”

A creeping sadness walked up Roan’s limbs as he watched his love blink away tears pebbling in the corner of his eyes.

“That went away, of course, with Taliesin’s deception—or Eoman’s, rather, though it matters little now. Rinna’s death was devastating; You know this, of course, we have spoken at length, but it bears repeating. My family was first polluted and then broken, and by my own hand. However invincible we felt, our little trio, we were only pawns to the Crows: expendable and, once again,” Zevran gave a weak chuckle, “unremarkable.”

“And I think… I apologize, _tesoro_ , I am only just coming to this realization, you must forgive me… But I think, I have clung to this fantasy of my mother—the departure from her clan, stealing away with a handsome stranger, a tragic end for them both… truly a story for the ages!” For just a moment, Zevran’s quintessential fire alighted in his eyes and a well-worn smirk played at his lips. But the spark faded as quickly as it came. “Just the romance of it all,” he murmured.

“But again, I have clung to this, I susp—no. Because I believe I am afraid to face myself without it. I-it has been a… talisman of sorts ever since my youth. Or perhaps a cloak or some fine armor.”

“It is the same reason I waited so long to pursue the truth in earnest,” he added with a weak wave of his hand. “To share all I knew of my mother. For what if it was all a clever lie? A romantic tale spun to make a whore’s dying breaths more poignant? Why… I did not think I could bear it. Being no one again.”

When Roan spoke again, his voice sounded strange, almost alien in the hushed darkness closing in around them.

“My love, you are unlike any other in this world. Since we first met, you have been exactly yourself and steadfast in this truth. Both because and in spite of these trials. There is no need to stand on your mother’s legacy.”

“I do not need her. But I cannot escape the wish to have her with me.”

Roan set his jaw and nodded once, thinking again of Ashalle. “I understand.”

Zevran looked up from his hands, his face softening into a reluctant smile. “Ah, yes, of course. By Andraste—look at me, wallowing in self-pity when not two steps from me is the very man who has experienced much the same loss. What a fool I am.” Zevran rose to his knees and sidled over to rest at Roan’s right. “My love,” he started shaking his head in disbelief, golden eyes brimming with tears yet to fall. “I will never be able to apologize enough for how I have wronged you.”

He reached out for Roan’s hand, holding it affectionately as he kneaded his lingering worry into the flesh. “But I can start now. Roan, _amado_ , I am so s—”

“I forgive you.”

Roan watched the first tear roll down Zevran’s cheek, glistening in the firelight as his love sputtered a response. “Wh-how do you… _¡Amor, no! No pued— no puedes perdonarme, no es justo… yo, yo… ¡Te mentí!”_

Mahariel closed his hand over the one Zevran still held and brought his face in closer. “No. I forgive you,” he said again, looking directly into his lover’s eyes so his meaning could not be mistaken.

Zevran’s lips quirked again as if to protest and Roan moved his mouth to meet them in a chaste kiss. “I forgive you, Zevran,” he whispered after breaking the kiss. “And I understand, more than I did, why you kept this from me.” Zevran moved again as if to speak and Roan brushed a quieting thumb over his lips, cupping his love’s umber cheek in his palm. Zevran eased into the tender gesture, letting out a shuddering breath as his tears began to flow freely.

Tears prickled at Roan’s eyes as he spoke again. “I can’t say I won’t have questions for you. And many of them. But later.” _Much later, if I can bear to wait. Which I can. I will._ “For now, all is well, my love. I will always be at your side, for this and every journey ahead. If… you will still have me?”

His answer came in the form of a kiss, bruising in its unfettered need as Zevran climbed into his lap, eager fingers raking up the back of Roan’s neck and into his hair to pull the roots taut. The time for talking had passed; after the day they had endured, the only hope for satisfaction sat between them. As quietly as the night around them, the pair slid into the tent, a tangle of limbs and soft sighs as the last remnants of supper sat cooling in their bowls, long forgotten.

* * *

Later in the night, Roan lay on his back in their tent, still warm in the memory of Zevran’s embrace following their reckoning earlier this evening. The first of many, more like than not. The start of a new journey of healing between them. Roan looked to his side and smiled; Zevran lay nearby on his stomach, a corona of gold hair splayed over bronze arms snuggling a thinning pillow to his cheek. Perhaps something good had come of their adventure after all.

Even so, in the wake of their disappointment, Roan couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to Clan Oranavra and the words exchanged in their short visit. For perhaps the fourth time since fleeing the campsite earlier that day, the notion that Keeper Athlassan might not have shared all that he knew crossed his mind. Nestled in their bedroll and the silence of night, he could no longer bat the idea away.

He had his first inklings of distrust early in their conversation with the Keeper—the man did not exactly inspire trust. But the idea arose again as they gathered their personal effects from the First in their hurry to depart.

_Roan was still steaming from their final moments with Athlassan, only spared the consequences of his emotions by Zevran’s quick thinking and years of trained control. Thinking back, he wanted nothing more than to flee the Dalish camp, running far from the blighted Nocen Coast and never to return—a compulsion closely followed by the still-simmering desire to run Athlassan through with his daggers. But as luck would have it, they were still at the mercy of one more of Oranavra’s clan._

_The barrel was where they left it, kept safe under Fiothra’s watchful eye. She’d_ _approached them expectantly as they neared, as if eager to hear news of their meeting with the Keeper and what revelations had come of it. He remembered watching the good humor etched into her features ebb with every step._

 _“Ma_ _nien,” Fiothra had started once she was before them, her eyes flitting back and forth between them as her mouth formed slowly around her next words. “Your audience with the Keeper…” She paused, straightening her shoulders as she adopted a fraction of her commanding aura from their first meeting.” Have you found the information you seek?”_

Roan had grappled whether to answer her at all. He was in no mood to humor the witch at the time; the whole clan was culpable for their Keeper’s treatment of them, as far as he was concerned.

_“No, da’len. We leave today unsatisfied,” he responded simply before turning to refasten his belt round his middle._

Her eyes went wide at his words; For some reason she hadn’t expected that. Roan didn’t seize upon it at the time—he was wholly more concerned with Zevran’s wellbeing as he rearmed at his side in uncharacteristic silence—but perhaps he should have pushed her on the matter. Or perhaps her reaction was enough of a clue.

 _“Oh._ Oh _.” Fiothra sputtered, eyebrows knitting with concern. Her next words came in fits in starts, her expression twisting in unnamed conflict. “I-ahem, must admit, I am… surprised at your words shia’elanaan.”_

 _Roan had to stifle a hollow laugh, settling on a noncommittal hum instead as simmering anger threatened to roil up inside him again_. Aye. We’re all surprised, _he thought_. Perhaps some more than we ought to be. _Turning again to the First, his face set with a grim smile, he replied._

_“So it is.”_

Something sparked in her eyes then, Roan was sure of it. But what? Creators, he knew what he wanted it to be. But for all the mix of doubt, mistrust, and confusion playing in Fiothra's eyes, he couldn’t say that any of those lent any more credibility to their quest. After all… what could the First know that the Keeper did not?

Inhaling deeply, Roan brought both hands to cover his face and attempted to release all his lingering frustration through a parade of low groans. His aggravation only slightly diminished, he lay that way a moment longer. It wouldn’t do him any good to dwell. At least not until he and Zevran were safely back at home in Antiva City. There he could have some distance both from the clan and from this day. Perhaps then the cloud would lift from his brain.

Zevran’s melodious voice rang out in the space between them. “Something troubles you, _querido_.”

Roan jumped, pulling his hands back from his face as he turned to his side. _Shit._ He had entirely forgotten Zevran was asleep just hair’s breadth away. He said as much, apologizing profusely.

Zevran waved off his apologies. “Think nothing of it, _amado_. Only tell me what troubles you so.”

“Oh. It’s nothing, Zev.” It was nothing. For now, at least. Just the frayed thoughts of a tired man with an overactive imagination.

Zevran rose to lean on an elbow, the blanket slipping from his shoulders to rest around his middle, bronzed abdominals just peeking out over the top of the fabric. “I have no intention to rush you, of course. And I cannot promise I have every answer you seek of me. But I should like to try, all the same.”

Warmth swelled in Roan’s heart; he would tell him, of course. Soon. After they had some time to process their journey. To mend.

Roan lay his hand atop Zevran’s, rubbing his lover’s skin gently. “Thank you. But all in good time.”

Green eyes held gold in a warm, lingering embrace and if a lip warbled or silent tear slipped from the crook of an eye, both passed without a word of acknowledgement.

With a final squeeze, Roan released Zevran’s hand, leaning back down onto his bedroll and drawing the blanket up around his neck. He heard Zevran turn from him to cuddle the pillow to his front even as he scooted his body back against Roan, leaning in for the reassurance of his lover’s body next to him. Content as the day’s events would allow him to be, Roan settled back in for the night, determined to bat away the worst of the thoughts still swimming through his mind.

 _Hmm_.

Well. Perhaps there was… _one_ more thing…

“ _Psst_. Zev?”

Zevran mumbled a vague question, rousing from a shallow sleep. “Mmph?”

“There was, uhm… one more thing, actually.”

“Mm. Of course.”

“It’s maybe a bit sensitive…”

“You may ask me anything, _amado_. Please.”

“All right.” A blush rose in his cheeks. Roan pursed his lips, staring at the canvas ceiling of their tent, unsure how to proceed with any delicacy. Perhaps the time for that had gone with all that had passed between them. “It’s just…” he faltered, rolling around the words in his mouth. “Was your mother’s brothel really called The White Swallow?”

Zevran wasn’t expecting that question, if his indelicate snort was any indication. Zevran rose to rest on his elbows, shaking with hearty laughter as he attempted to clear the last of the surprise from his lungs. Roan’s flush spread from his cheeks down to his collarbone before Zevran settled again. “Yes, that. Ahem… Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that… I don’t know, that seems a bit… on the nose?”

“Ha! Ah, my love, sometimes I forget you are a delicate Southern flower, but… this is Antiva we are talking about! And what good is subtlety in a brothel? You mean to tell me you have been spoiled by The Pearl and her infinite mystery?”

Roan grumbled his dissent as he curled back under the covers, taking Zevran with him as he cradled him to his chest. Zevran cuddled eagerly into the embrace.

“Not as such. It’s just… we don’t really have anything of the sort in the clans. Well. Other than the Arlathvhen.”

“Ah, yes! Your Elvhen reunion where the old tell stories while the young enjoy each other in orgiastic revelry. Unless, perhaps, I dreamed that last…?”

“No, no, the very same,” he said with a smile pressed to Zevran’s shoulder.

“So I thought. Say… when is the next one of those? I have a sudden desire to explore my heritage.”

His words hurt as much as they soothed Roan’s bruised spirit, but the intention behind them was clear nonetheless. Whatever had come before, Zevran was free to carve out his place in the world, everyone else be damned. And, if he would oblige, there was always enough space for Roan to carve away at his side.

Roan chuckled softly as he drew Zevran closer into him. “Another three years, at least, ma sa’lath.”

“Mm. Pity. Ah, well then. Something to look forward to, at least.”

“Aye, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoys the angst and the wee bit of fluff after. Sorry for the _massive_ delay, but thanks to those still reading. This chapter more or less serves as the end to this story, but I am writing an epilogue set after a time lapse that will tie up remaining loose ends.
> 
> Thanks again to anyone sticking with this and drop me a line on tumblr if you liked it.


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